Tripping out

I am becoming more and more aware of how close are the links between mind and body. For example: Have you noticed how your mood can change abruptly after a shit – sorry I mean a ‘successful defecation’.
And I don’t know about you, but I get my best thoughts whilst in the bathroom.
I have been thinking about what happens when you die – as you will know from my last bulletin. I just cannot help wondering what will happen to all the ‘bits’ and ‘bytes’ that make up the information, the pattern; the programme that I call ‘ME’. When I am ‘erased’ will they just be returned to the great cosmic memory, freeing up space on God’s hard-drive. Or will they be ‘cached’ somewhere, for a while, so that I may return as a ghost or spirit or whatever? As Stephen Hawking once memorably said – I just wish I fuckin’ knew.
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‘Sit down George’
I did so and she came around the desk and took the easy chair next to me, placing the folder on her lap. This was the usual routine but there was something different this time: something in her voice maybe? Her body language? Her appearance? She looked pale, as if she hadn’t been sleeping, and there were dark shadows under her eyes, faint but still visible beneath the heavy make up.
She sat for a moment staring at the beige cover of the folder. Then she lifted her face and looked directly at me. ‘You’re not responding to treatment, George’
‘What?’ I could not really take in what she was saying.
She opened the folder and glanced at the first page. ‘We’ve had a case conference: Freddie, Dr Singh, Greta, Bernie and myself, and, quite frankly we can’t agree on a treatment plan’.
‘Treatment plan? – oh come on Amanda, this is me you’re talking to; let’s have plain language, please.’
‘Okay. We don’t know what to do with you’
‘Oh, so does that mean I can go home?’
‘No it does not mean that. You were sectioned under the Mental Health Act, because it was felt that you were a danger to yourself’.
‘I know that. But you know that I was coming down off that bridge when I slipped; I did not jump, I slipped.
She fumbled in her cardigan pocket and produced a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. This was another sign something was amiss– she never smoked during a session.
After four angry flicks of her thumb, the lighter fired. She inhaled and blew a column of smoke up at the ceiling.
‘The fact is, George, you’re just not getting better. Is that plain enough for you?’
It was.
‘And,’ she continued ‘what is more worrying is that your mental state seems to be deteriorating. In other words, it is worse now than when you came in here…’ she flipped a couple of pages of my dossier ‘ six, seven…’
‘All right, all right’ I interrupted her ‘don’t remind me how long I’ve been in here – it seems like a lifetime’.
Those beautiful cool grey eyes gazed steadily at me through wisps of cigarette smoke, sizing me up, seeing right into me. It was un-nerving and exciting at the same time.
‘We have been observing you since you were admitted.’ A slim forefinger traced down the page. My eyes followed the long, scarlet fingernail; mesmerised, She read: ‘…mood swings becoming more frequent… unpredictable…rapid cycling… manic phase… grandiose language… depressive cycles increasing in length (Query bi-polar 1 or 2) …
Now it was my turn to interrupt. ‘Oh come on Amanda, this is rubbish – and you know it’. But I was becoming more and more frightened.
She continued. ‘Obsessive Compulsive symptoms becoming more pronounced.’ She stopped for a moment and looked up. ‘Do you want me to go on?’
I nodded meekly.
‘Ritualistic praying at odd times during the day (Query incipient religious mania)… repetitive behaviour (touching objects a certain number of times etc)… hoarding (Patient does not appear to be able to throw anything away, his room is full of scraps of paper, books, journals…’
‘You haven’t been reading my journals!’ I was angry but fearful too.
She gave me a wry smile. ‘Yes George, W’ve been reading your journals.’
‘WHAT! You’ve no right, absolutely no…’
She cut me short. ‘We have every right, as well you know. In fact, if I were a ‘Freudian’ (which I am)’ Another smile, broader this time. ‘I would say that you wanted someone to read them – you leave them lying around, don’t you?’
I said nothing.
‘Well, we’ll talk about the journals another time.’ She closed the file. ‘George, when I said we don’t know what to do about you, it would be more accurate to say there is a difference of opinion as to what now would be the best treatment.’
I was becoming more and more uneasy, so I tried to lighten things up. ‘Well I think I’ve worked my way through your pharmacy by now.’
‘Not completely.’ She opened the file again. ‘We’ve tried some of the more popular SSRIs’s, a couple of the MAOI’s - oh yes, and lithium.
‘So what now?’
She lit another cigarette before replying. ‘Freddie wants to have a go with E.C.T.’
‘Have a go! HAVE A GO! I’m not having 40,000 volts shoved through MY brain. Fuck Freddie!’ I suddenly realised the unintended irony. She did too.
She laughed. ‘Not for some time, actually.’ Then she became serious. ‘Look I’ve fought Freddie on this one, - we very nearly came to blows.’
‘But he can’t make me have E.C.T.’
‘No, of course not. But it would not look good on your medical records – that you were refusing treatment. I mean, you do want to get out of here, don’t you?’
‘You bastards.’ I was more frightened than angry.
‘ Trust me, George, I’m on your side.
‘I never trust anyone who asks me to trust them.’
‘Well at least let me finish. He’s agreed to have you transferred to St Winnifred’s – just for a week – to have some PET scans and another assessment.’
This was all going too fast for me. ‘But St Winnifred’s – that’s in London, isn’t it – I’m not going there.’
She sighed. ‘Look, I shall still be in charge of your case. In fact I’ll be staying at the hospital, I will see you every day.’
‘So you will have the final say?’ I asked, suspiciously.
‘Yes, and I won’t let them do anything you don’t want them to.’
‘Well I suppose I don’t have many options.’
‘That’s right.’ She said, getting to her feet. ‘Now, is there anything else you’d like to ask me?’
I thought for a moment. ‘I suppose a shag’s out of the question!’